


End of the Reign

by orphan_account



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, descriptions of violence, mature rating is mostly due to description of a public execution, other travelers are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23499166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the end of Werner's tyranny, the town of Riverford can begin to heal.A series of stories that documents the restoration efforts during the first three days of freedom.(Spoilers for Olberic's Chapter 4)
Kudos: 25





	End of the Reign

#### I.

Therion seats himself at the corner of the bar with a glass of the local ale. Compared to the dismal welcome upon entering Riverford, cheers and clinking of glasses reverberate against the tavern walls.

The attempted ambush wasn’t his first foray in town; he had pulled a successful heist against the Ciannos years ago. Several moons ago, he would have considered that event a part of simpler times. Of course, fate and a clashing of blades proved him wrong.

_“To hell with Werner - gods, I’d never thought I’d see the day!”_

He gleans these insults in waves. To think, if Therion lingered in Riverford, he would’ve burned at the stake for an apple off the lord’s tree. It would’ve been a damn good apple, yet an ending less sweet due to none mourning his loss.

He steals to survive, but surviving isn’t living. Now, there are people who _want_ him to live, people who will catch him if he falls. 

Weird. One glass of ale normally has no effect on him. Maybe he is a sentimental fool. The others - his found family - remind him that he’s _their_ sentimental fool.

Masking the smile beneath his scarf, Therion eavesdrops on the table beside him, where two older gentlemen down their glasses with vigor.

_“It’s been how many years now? Felt like a never-endin’ nightmare.”_

_“Looks like the former Lord’s son will take his rightful place. About time.”_

_“He’s got balls, that one. Add two living legends, their friends, and a damn leopard, and you got yourself a beatdown.”_

_“After what happened to the lad back then, it’s the sweetest justice. I’ll never forget the look on his face...”_

_“To think, I’d supported Werner until things went to hell. How can I forgive myself?”_

“Hm,” Therion remarks to himself. He didn’t know why he fixated on the man since their first meeting. In the literal sense, he stared until Harald returned an equally perplexed expression. Probably just the hair, right? Yeah. Definitely. 

Pushing the thoughts aside, he exchanges the raucous tavern for a meander around town. Ahead of him, a young woman rushes toward the lower part of town. Then he spots the coin purse.

It’s worn from use, and - peering inside - nearly empty, save for a few loose leaves.

“Hey,” Therion calls. The woman flinches, warily turning toward the sound of his voice. For a brief moment, he sees the panic in her eyes.

“Y-yes?”

Oh. Right.

“Uh,” he awkwardly holds out the coin purse. “You dropped this.” 

Fear recedes as the woman confirms her paltry leaves are in order.

“O-Oh! Thank you, kind sir,” she smiles nervously. “You never know when your things will go missing around here.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Well, you have a good one.”

If there’s anything left to steal in such a destitute town, he lacks the desire. He grew up poor, but he didn’t grow up beneath a tyrant. 

Olberic greets him during his walk, hair mussed and eyes bleary in the afternoon sun. Normally an early riser, the battle with Werner left the warrior exhausted.

“You look like shit,” Therion greets with an air of sympathy.

“I certainly feel that way,” Olberic sighs, rubbing his temples. “The townsfolk have requested my aid this evening for the felling of the pyres.”

“Look at you,” Therion smirks. “A true hero of the people. I’ll be sure to watch the show.”

“Well, then I mustn’t disappoint,” Olberic manages a chuckle. Truth be told, he feels honored to take part in such a momentous event. “Until then, have you gathered any news?” 

He receives a nod. “Got something you might wanna hear.”

  


#### II.

“That’ll do ‘er,” Alfyn announces as he redresses Harald’s shoulder wound. “ Gotta admit, though - you’re way stronger than you look if you were able to shove _Olberic_ away.”

“Haha, my head isn’t always stuck in my books, it would seem,” the man banters, letting out a relieved sigh as he leans against the pillows. Gods, that felt good.

“Sounds like a scholar we know,” Alfyn chuckles, packing away his supplies. “Give it a few days, and you’ll be good to go.”

“Thank you, my friend,” the man smiles, albeit briefly. “How are the townspeople?”

“Oh-” Alfyn pauses, as the thoughts trouble him. But Harald plans to serve as the new lord. He needs to know.

“Ophilia and I are checking on the wounded as much as we can. Even the townsfolk offered aid whenever they could.” 

“I am glad,” Harald’s heart fills with pride, hearing how his people banded together after years of mistrust. The somber look on Alfyn’s face, however, tempers the mood. No better way than direct. “And those who have passed…?”

The apothecary shakes his head, heart heavy. While he and Ophilia worked feverishly, they could not save everyone. But Alfyn understands that he did his best given the circumstances, and that it’s enough. Still hurts like hell, though.

“There’s a lot of ‘em,” Alfyn murmurs, pulling up a chair at Harald’s side. “We put ‘em in an abandoned storeroom for now. I used my ice spells to preserve the bodies as best as I could, but is there a better place for ‘em?”

Harald sinks into the pillow, his eyes shut. 

“I’m afraid not, my friend,” he inhales a trembling breath, thinking of his people’s sacrifices. “Any folks who opposed Werner while they were alive were tossed into the river - whatever remained, at least.” 

“Damn…” Alfyn leaves it at that, and they ponder in silence. The horrors are atrocious to the apothecary, but to Harald, it was another day under a tyrant’s grip. And that makes him sick.

“...There is a plot of land on the outskirts of town,” Harald eventually breaks the tension. “When my father was alive, we buried the deceased there. Eventually, Werner favored training grounds over gravestones. Please, restore it to what it once was. Anything but the river...”

“Right… we’ll make it happen,” Alfyn makes a mental note to pass along the details to Reggie. He musters a reassuring smile, even as the pain of what the man endured weighs upon him. “Before I forget… Ophilia offered to hold a service for the departed - said it’s something they did at the church. Only with your permission, of course.”

“If the Flamebearer herself offers, it is only fair to the brave souls who fought for our cause,” Harald laments. “Please tell her I wish to discuss the matter once I am well.”

“You got it,” Alfyn affirms, turning as he leaves. “Get some rest, okay? Since we’re here, we’ll help out the best we can.”

“You are all too kind… thank you again.” 

  


#### III.

“Preparen thy weaponry. We shalle riddeth thy homeland of these unsightly pyres,” H’aanit calls from atop the first stake. Tying a thick rope around the stake, she tugs it for security before leaping off. On standby, eager volunteers grasp their end of the rope. Oh, how long they have waited for this day.

H’aanit cuts out an angled wedge from the stake before beckoning the strongest of the resistance forward. Nearby, Erhardt vacates citizens from the vicinity, who now watch from a safe distance. He remains in awe of the crowds anticipating this moment as one, with celebratory cheers spreading to all corners of Riverford. How far has Werner fallen since their years in Hornburg.

“Aimeth thy cut close to mine own,” H’aanit gestures at the point where her two cuts meet. “When thy stake beginneth to lean, pulleth backward with all thy strength,” she addresses the volunteers with booming confidence. Following their affirming cheers, the huntress steps aside.

Grinning, the man in the red hat brandishes a woodcutter’s axe with fervor. “Been waitin’ too damn long for this day.” With a single swing, the wood splinters and starts to tilt. At H’aanit’s signal, the volunteers tug, and the stake falls in their direction with a thud. Joyous shouts erupt from the spectators, and they only increase in volume as the process repeats.

In Harald’s stead, Reggie curses Werner to hell and beyond before sending his axe through the scorched wood. Never again will the people suffer by his hand. Never again will Harald suffer, if he can help it.

Erhardt reflects on his troubled past, from fighting under Werner’s command to living as a shell of his former self. Werner is no longer the man he once knew, and for that, he pities him. Blade sharp, he slices into the wood without regrets.

Lastly, the Unbending Blade himself steps forward amidst the liveliest cheers and applause. As H’aanit looks on with a huntress’s pride (and Therion from the back), Olberic shares a slice of his story. From living without a self to selflessness toward others, he reflects on finding one’s purpose. What does it mean to truly live? He expresses hopes that the townspeople may discover this meaning for themselves, with time and patience. He thanks his beloved friends, his _family_ , for their aid and unending support. If one purpose is clear in his mind, it is to protect them with his life.

Trusted blade in hand, the mighty swing topples the stake with ease - no need to pull the rope. The final thud against the ground marks an end to the tyranny, and no champion’s belt from Victors Hollow can compare to the people’s triumph. 

  


#### IV.

A heavy knock sounds behind the door, followed by an expected deep voice.

“Sir Olberic! Please come in!” Harald calls from his bedroll.

Olberic meets Harald’s concerned gaze upon entrance.

“You look worse for wear, my friend,” the man sympathizes.

“So I’ve been told,” Olberic rubs the fatigue from his eyes before pulling up a chair beside Harald. “But never mind that. How is your wound?”

Harald glances toward his shoulder; minimal blood seeps through the white bandages. “Alfyn is skilled at his craft. I will be fine.”

“That is a relief,” the warrior sighs. “Thank you for that, by the way. I do not know what came over me at that moment. Seeing our allies fall around me reminded me of the past, and... I froze.”

“You need not worry. Were it not for you and your friends, I would not be here to express my gratitude,” he reassures. “So… the deed is done. I heard he was slain by your hand?”

“Not exactly,” the warrior admits with a troubled expression. “He forced himself to the top alone, and by his own hand, he left this world alone. His pride was his downfall, in the end.” Olberic omits the true reason behind Werner’s plot against Hornburg, for even _he_ has yet to process the matter.

“To die knowing none will mourn you is an unfortunate fate,” Harald acknowledges. “Even so, it does not excuse the atrocities against my people. It will take time, but this is the first step toward our healing.”

“And heal, you shall,” Olberic assures with a gentle voice. “We will help you however we can.”

“Bless your souls,” Harald noticeably relaxes. “You all bring us strength. That stated, how are they faring? Alfyn informed me of Sister Ophilia and himself, but the others?”

“Ah,” Olberic spends a moment recalling their whereabouts. He often forgets just how many comprise their patchwork group.

“H’aanit, Erhardt and I have helped the townspeople remove those awful pyres. Lady Primrose and Tressa have joined Reggie in haggling for goods, as well as asking merchants to spread the word. Cyrus is hopefully resting, having overexerted himself during our battle. The state in which he left the manse... pray, do not enter until substantial repairs are complete.”

“That fact alone piques my curiosity, but I shall heed your words,” Harald pauses in thought. “Forgive me, but I recall another in your group? His hair is as white as mine. It’s oddly familiar...”

“You speak of Therion,” Olberic notes the resemblance, but does not press further. “He often spends time gleaning information from the local taverns. From what he shared, the townspeople look forward to your leadership, especially after…”

“After?” Harald waits with bated breath. “Please, hold nothing back.”

If there is a moment for Ophilia to pray for him, it is now.

“...Something happened to you as a lad.”

Dread flickers upon Harald’s once-calm expression. Olberic feared this reaction. If Brand’s thunder strikes him now, he would welcome the release.

Harald remains silent, hands clutching the blanket beneath them.

“If I am prying where I shouldn’t, please--”

“No,” Harald cuts him off, cupping his face in his hands. Sliding them down to rest upon his lap. Fingers fidgeting. “Something compels me to tell you… and for some reason, I believe it would be for the best.”

Olberic mulls over his words carefully. “If it would bring a moment’s peace to your heart, my friend, then I shall listen to every word.” He tentatively places a hand over Harald’s uninjured shoulder. Harald welcomes the gesture.

“Very well… you recall the story of my father, yes?”

He cannot forget.

“Aye. Werner falsely accused him of corruption, and the tyranny began when he forced him out of power.”

“You are correct,” Harald sighs, steeling himself for the memories. “It was the first of what became Werner’s cruel tradition. Even in the darkness, however, I found a light…”

* * *

“Heh, looks like it’s showtime. Let’s go, runt.”

“What--” is all the young Harald makes out before the cell door unlocks and a guard pins him to the ground. He thrashes about, legs kicking, yet the guard is too strong.

“Hold his legs, damn it!” a second gruff voice scolds, and his legs cement to the prison floor. Harald grunts in pain, and the pause is ample time for a third guard to tighten the blindfold around his head.

“Unhand me, you brutes!” the youth yells his frustrations as they wrench his arms behind his back. Coarse rope loops around his wrists, and he gasps from the sudden _pull._

A rough hand yanks Harald up by the hair, and before he can protest, a blade presses against his throat. A shuddering gasp, then silence.

“That’s better,” one of the guards chuckles darkly. “Better listen up if you know what’s best for ya. It’s what your father would want, hm?”

Harald bares his teeth in anger, yet forces himself still. Damn them.

“Now be a good lad and stand, lest we tie a rope ‘round your neck and drag you like a sorry whelp.” The knife leaves his throat, and he gasps again. 

Harald curses through his teeth, yet what can he do? Hauled up onto his feet, he feels a vice-like grip clamp onto each arm. A blunt pain jabs against his back, forcing him to move.

“Hurry along, runt. Your father’s dyin’ to see ya.”

A crass joke, but at a clear disadvantage, he swallows his anger and musters forward. At the slightest buckle of a knee, the blunt pain jabs him again. And again. He clenches his teeth and presses on. The air soon lingers with the oppressive scent of smoke.

“ _...Why?_ ” There’s an edge to the only word Harald speaks during the agonizing trek. These men were once his father’s loyal guards… loyal, no longer.

“Heh, Lord Werner’s got grand plans for the town. And the coin to match,” one guard beside him responds with sickening pride. 

“First order of business was makin’ sure our guest of honor has a front-row seat,” the other replies with equal edge.

Werner… a man who single-handedly orchestrated a kingdom’s end certainly held such connections. For mere coin, however, these guards turned their backs without hesitation? His father was a fair man, yet perhaps such fairness allowed criminals to slip through the alleys. The common folks bore the brunt of their crimes, and as a result, many welcomed a change in leadership. That much, Harald knew. And yet, to resort to such measures signalled the doom of his beloved home.

“Ah, so you have finally joined us. Frankly, it would not have been the same without you,” the ominous voice sends shivers down his spine.

 _“ **My son!!** ”_ Harald whips his head toward that achingly familiar voice. Weak and hoarse, yet laced with the venom of a dozen blotted vipers. For the mere act, he earns a powerful jab that sends him to the ground. The voice flares in response.

 _“ **COWARDS, THE LOT OF YOU!!** ”_ the former Lord scolds his once-loyal men, now aligned with this oppressor for selfish gain.

“Come down from the pyre yourself, if you wish to stop them,” the oppressor quips mercilessly.

Shoulder throbbing from the impact, Harald barely recovers before he’s hauled upright onto his knees. The blindfold falls from his eyes, which quickly fill with horror.

Before him stands a lone pyre, his wounded father tied around the stake. Around him, his former soldiers barricade the town square. Townspeople look on, distant and fearfully silent. They do not want to be here. On the brief chance Harald locks eyes with one, they hastily turn away.

Harald returns his gaze toward his father. They share no words, but he feels his father apologize through his eyes.

“Light the torch,” the oppressor commands, and the assigned guards make haste. From the man’s midnight steed to his pretentious garb, there’s no mistaking his identity. Harald’s blood runs cold, yet he refuses to look any further. He spends these final moments gazing only at his father, willing the tears back.

“My dear son,” the former Lord’s voice quivers from strain alone, yet retains what pride remains. “I am sorry for the grief I have caused you… you deserve none of this cruelty. I only wish things were different…”

The guard approaches the pyre, lit torch in hand.

“You must stand firm. Do not waver in your convictions, for they will guide you when all else seems lost.”

“Set him alight,” the oppressor commands.

The guard stops at the pyre’s base.

“Be strong, Harald. While I will not be there to fight by your side… I will be in your heart. I will always watch over you, and I will always, _always_ love you. You have blessed my life with your light, and I am the proudest father one can only hope to be.”

_Do not speak as if your time is done!_

But Harald knows - they both know. The tears spill down the youth’s face, and he cannot speak. The former Lord’s words seem to pierce through the torch bearer, as he remains motionless. It is not until the clean _slice_ against his hand provokes the guard into action. Screams emerge from the crowd, but quick threats silence them once more. They look on with greater fear.

“Waste another second and it will be your neck,” the oppressor warns. Blood tints the tip of his blade red.

“Y-Yes, my Lord!” he nearly squeaks before dropping the torch against the pyre. As the flames travel up the stake, a rough hand yanks Harald’s hair from behind, forcing him to watch his father burn.

His mind eventually blocks the screams until there are none. The crackle of fire persists while the rest of reality shatters around him.

As if the event is routine, the barricading soldiers quickly usher the townsfolk away. Most oblige without a moment’s waste, scurrying into their homes before they tasted the new lord’s blade themselves. Others manage a passing glance before retreating, uncertainty in their steps.

Harald remains on his knees, head bowed down to mask his tears. His body trembles violently and he wants to _scream._ Yet, no words come. He cannot bear to look anymore.

“Might as well put this runt outta his misery,” a guard proclaims. He hears the unsheathing of a sword and remains still. Eyes closed, he imagines carefree times before the blade can slice through the air and into his-

“Stay your hand,” the oppressor orders. A noise of confusion, and the blade finds its sheath. “Let him live with this burden. It will be all the more satisfying when he realizes who is in control before he meets his end.” 

The sound of hooves against gravel grows fainter, the clattering of armor fainter, and Harald is alone with what remains of his father.

He wants to sob, but there are no tears left to fall. And so he stays on his knees, helpless.

When he finally musters a forward glance, even the sun shies away from the accursed sight. Shadows loom over what was once his home, and he is lost.

“...’ey mate…” a cautious voice emerges from said shadows. Harald does not look, but his body shivers from the evening chill.

“Mate…?” the voice grows louder, until it’s right by his side. The stranger stays silent, contemplating his next approach. He knew what transpired. The whole town knew.

Harald trembles.

“...’ang on, I’m gonna free your hands,” the stranger murmurs after some time. Rough yet gentle fingers brush against the youth’s skin. Harald does not resist, and the ropes fall from his wrists.

Dropping his arms against his sides, he gazes up at the stranger, who now unravels the blue scarf from his neck. The man holds out the fabric, and Harald cautiously examines it - yes, just a scarf. Feeling another chill, he accepts the scarf and gingerly wraps it around himself. The warmth soothes him.

“That’ll ‘elp ya. Now c’mon, it’s not safe out ‘ere. Can ya walk alright?”

With the kind man’s aid, Harald lifts himself off the ground he had wished to sink into moments ago. His legs quiver as blood rushes through his limbs, but the man keeps him steady.

“...Thank you, sir,” the youth murmurs, tightening the scarf. He attempts to steal another glance at the pyre, but the taller man blocks his sight.

“Call me Reggie,” the man insists. “But let’s talk inside, eh?”

With days spent in the gaols (and with no home left), Harald follows his lead. Feet shuffling along, they eventually reach a run-down home in the town’s residential district. Aside from the river’s flow, it’s eerily silent. 

Ushering Harald inside, Reggie quickly locks the door behind him. Lighting the oil lamp, he finally catches his breath.

“You probably got a lotta questions, mate. I’m not plannin’ to kill ya, if that answers one.” 

Harald nods warily, yet he chose to follow, did he not? 

“Why did you help me?” the meekness in his voice embarrasses him. Reggie softens his gaze, motioning for him to sit before continuing. _He’s just a lad…_

“Listen. Any sane person would’ve ‘elped ya after… all o’ that. But this Werner’s got ‘em frozen in fear. Or maybe I’m the insane one. Truth be told, I owe ‘is lordship a mighty debt. The man ‘elped me out when I was a bind. Could’ve bitten the dust without ‘im noticin’, but ‘e noticed, alright. Told me if I couldn’t pay up, then aidin’ the townsfolk was payment enough. So ‘ere I am.”

“I see…” Harald ponders, wrapping his arms around himself in self-comfort. “Then you also oppose this Werner, am I wrong?”

“...I’d burn at the stake myself before bowing down to a tyrant like ‘im”, Reggie nearly spits, his words laced with a familiar venom. Still, his tone remains mild given Harald’s state. “Guess that makes us partners, then. ‘appy to make your acquaintance.” He extends a friendly hand. “Harald, was it? ‘is lordship always spoke fondly of ya.”

The youth nods, returning the handshake with a slight smile. It’s the first he manages in a while. “Thank you, Reggie. I… we will avenge him.”

* * *

Harald exhales a shuddering breath after recounting the memories. 

What can Olberic say? What _is_ there to say? It looks as if the world is crashing down upon Harald, so _say_ something.

“...Horrific cannot begin to describe what you have endured,” Olberic clenches his fist.

Harald brings his hands to his head, the years of turmoil suddenly vivid in his mind. But then he remembers Reggie’s courage. He remembers the steady growth of their resistance, the selfless aid of these travelers… the end of Werner’s reign. 

It’s over, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem real. As he lowers his hands, Olberic looks back with a patient smile. And that makes him smile, too.

“It truly is a blessing that you all arrived when you did, then.”

Olberic places a reassuring hand over Harald’s trembling ones, and they remain silent for some time.

“...I apologize. You require rest, and all I have done was reopen old wounds-”

“No,” Harald cuts him off once more, taking in a shaky breath. And another. “Telling you this has… lifted a strange weight off my shoulders. Perhaps this is what Reggie meant by sharing my burdens aloud - that’s it’s the first step toward healing.”

“He is a wise man, and from what you have shared, the most courageous of them all,” Olberic reassures.

“Yes,” Harald smiles fondly. “He supported me at my darkest hour, and continues to do so. I will never forget his kindness - it is what fuels me to repay it tenfold.”

“I see,” Olberic’s heart warms at the man’s resolve. “So you have found your purpose?”

“You could say that,” Harald ponders. “I still have much to learn, but if I may help the people heal from their wounds, then it is a purpose well-served.” The confidence in Harald’s voice warms Olberic’s heart.

“If so, then I have no doubts you will succeed in your endeavors. Your love toward your people brings me great strength, and I, too, hope to serve with such resolve.”

“Words spoken from a legend himself. I am most honored...” Harald murmurs, letting out a yawn. “But more than that, I am suddenly quite tired.”

“Ah! Then I shall leave you to rest,” the equally exhausted Olberic makes his exit. “Whether here or across the sea, know that my sword is always at your side.”

“Heh, I shall keep that in mind.” 

  


#### V.

The sun sets at ease, no longer chased away by a morbid sight. Families walk their children home for the evening and merchants pack up their wares, coin purses a little fuller. A group of boisterous men shuffle into the tavern for a third night of celebrations. The shift in atmosphere is astounding - a clear testament to the previous regime’s impact.

Soft footsteps echo into the crisp air as Harald and Reggie, arms laden with flowers, make their way up the square’s steps. The young lord greets a waving child with a bow, and they giggle in delight before joining their mother’s side.

Lowering onto his knees, Harald places the bouquets onto the center of the platform. Reggie follows suit, arranging the flowers over residual scorch marks. They display the widest array of colors in the entire town - a start of a new era.

The two share a knowing glance before gazing toward the sunset, which bathes the landscape in a golden glow. They will shed the shackles of the past and start anew. So long as their people can smile again, it will be worth the effort.

“The sun’s nearly set, m’lord,” Reggie chimes in. “Why don’t we ‘ead back?”

His lord does not respond. As Harald turns his head, tears stream down his face.

“It’s only the two of us… no need to be so formal.”

And Harald allows himself to break down, to mourn when he couldn’t years ago. Years of nightmares, years of steeling his emotions culminate in this moment of release.

“Come ‘ere…” Reggie murmurs, wrapping a gentle arm around Harald’s quivering shoulders. The young lord leans into his confidant’s embrace, and they share this moment in comfortable silence.

“It’s been a long road, ‘asn’t it...? Don’t ya worry, we’re gonna make this place better than it was afore.”

Harald sniffles loudly in response, dropping his head against Reggie’s shoulder. It’s been years since he’s consoled the younger in this state, but he remembers nonetheless.

“Let it out, Harald, that’s right…” he soothes amidst the evening chill.

When Harald returns to his quarters, he notices the blue scarf wrapped around his neck.

The warmth soothes him.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I happened to complete Olberic's story last in my game, so they're a found family at this point. His chapter 4 is one of my favorites, and Reggie was fun to write!
> 
> \- Harald and Reggie are 23 and 30 in-game, respectively. Given the timeline, I estimate their ages in the flashback to be 15-16 and 22-23.
> 
> \- I initially intended for part IV to be a standalone work, which explains why it's much longer than the others (and why there's a flashback). As I was writing, I decided to add snippets of related events around Riverford. It took me a while to organize this, and there are things I would do differently, but overall I'm satisfied.
> 
> \- I see a lot of parallels between Harald and Therion, from fluffy white hair to an affinity for fire. Also scarves. Totally a coincidence.......
> 
> \- Thank you for reading!


End file.
